


A Flight of Fancy

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Oliver Trevelyan [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-01
Updated: 2015-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:26:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Oliver Trevelyan had such a reputation—as a flirt or, worse, a rake—all of Skyhold would have been whispering about it long before now. Which leaves Cassandra to wonder—what if he is in earnest? What if it isn’t her imagination at all? (Takes place  before the conversation that leads to the An Ideal Romance quest.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Flight of Fancy

_He cannot be serious._

That’s what she tells herself.  It is simply his nature—he is amiable, he _teases_ ; he cannot be in earnest. He cannot.  Oliver Trevelyan is the Herald of Andraste and could not possibly be _flirting_ with her.

To begin with, the Herald of Andraste should not _flirt._

And yet, when he speaks to her, his eyes find hers and hold them as if she is the only one in the room.  Even during the most casual of touches—passing the salt during meals, or offering a hand up over difficult terrain—his fingertips linger a fraction of a heartbeat longer than necessity requires, long enough to make Cassandra’s stomach to flip pleasantly, long enough that the blood in her veins pulses a little harder, turning her skin a little warmer. Long enough that fluttering tendrils spread through her chest, reaching out tentatively, hopefully, tickling like butterfly wings.  Long enough that she’s annoyed with herself for reacting so.

She tucks herself in her bedroll and opens the dog-eared novel she’s been carrying with her all across the Hinterlands, the walls of her tent flickering with the campfire’s dying embers, the soft chirp of crickets and low hoots of owls familiar music to sleep by.  But Cassandra cannot sleep, nor can she concentrate to read with any degree of success; her mind churns with uncertainty—he cannot be doing this by design.  He cannot _mean_ it.  

Perhaps it is nothing but her imagination.

 _Or perhaps_ , she thinks, less pleasantly, _he is toying with me, making his own amusement at my expense._

Cassandra turns the page of the book she isn’t reading, thumb dragging back and forth over the paper’s corner.  There is no evidence to support such a thing; if he had a reputation among the women at Skyhold, then maybe there would be weight to such a suspicion, but those who have the time and leisure to watch the Inquisitor more closely and more consistently than she whisper among themselves he is a confirmed bachelor.  If Oliver Trevelyan had such a reputation—as a flirt or, worse, a rake—all of Skyhold would have been whispering about it long before now.  

Which leaves Cassandra to wonder—and dare to daydream—what if he is in earnest? What if it isn’t her imagination at all?

It is the sort of fantasy she knows she ought not indulge in, especially here, especially now; their camp is small and notoriously lacking privacy.

And yet.  _And yet._   Cassandra imagines those strange, pale eyes of his, watching her as if she’s the only woman in the world. She imagines his rough, nimble fingers and how they would feel skating up her spine, along her neck, her collarbone; she imagines him knowing just where to touch her, just where she would want to be touched.  

Ah, but would his hands be slow and reverent or impatient?  She cannot say which she wishes were true.  Both.

Oliver has a clever enough tongue when he speaks, but what about other times when words are less necessary? Closing her eyes, she pictures his mouth upon hers, pressed warm against her lips; she imagines a path of kisses from her mouth down her neck and up again to her ear.  Her blood pounds a little harder as she calls up the memory of his voice, imagining it murmuring in her ear between kisses, softer than moonlight, lower even than the rustle of their bodies sliding against linens.  Her breath catches as she imagines him saying her name.  Just her name.

Something hot throbs between her legs and Cassandra bites back a curse as she shifts on her bedroll, certain she should put him out of her mind. Unfortunately, her mind, now set on such a path, is reluctant to leave it.  Instead it fills in corners she’s tried to leave blank, adding light and color, turning her musings uncomfortably vibrant.

Beyond the tent’s walls comes the hoot of an owl. Other than that, camp is silent.

Biting down on her lower lip, entirely aware of every rustle, of every breath, already too-loud in the confines of her tent, Cassandra slips her fingers down and inside, clamping her teeth down on her gasp. Every nerve in her body is already alive, flaring brighter as she conjures Oliver’s weight against hers, his mouth upon her skin, his fingers searching, stroking, sliding—

Cassandra lifts her hips, pressing against her hand, against her fingers, her breaths coming louder and more labored— _too_ loud, _too_ labored. She grits her teeth and focuses on her breath, taking each one more slowly than the last.  If she is careless, she’ll be caught out.  And what then?  What if _he_ hears?  

What if he hears and seeks her out and finds her like this?

It is the absolute _last_ thought she ought to have allowed to slip through her mind, because now, safe behind closed lids, safe in her mind’s eye, the tent flap opens and pale grey eyes lit only by moonlight, catch her like this, like _this,_ skin flushed and clothes askew, hand between her legs, lips no doubt swollen from biting down into them, swallowing back her cries.

Oliver wears no heavy plate armor, but leathers—which means Cassandra knows perfectly well the shape of him, broad on top, tapering down to narrow hips—his arms are archer’s arms, and her body’s muscles tighten and coil as she pictures him crawling over her, his hand replacing hers, his mouth closing over hers, tongue and teeth teasing her, coaxing her deeper and deeper into long, biting kisses.  In the confines of her mind, she grabs his arms, fingers scything into muscle as she rolls them over, until she’s straddling those narrow hips, pressing against him.  And in her mind, he smiles up at her, one that reaches all the way to his eyes, a crooked tilt at his lips that—

_Oh._

A sharp breath in and though Cassandra tries to hold on to the fantasy, to make it last just a little longer, everything contracts at once and she moves greedily against her fingers, gritting her teeth and scarcely remembering to bite back a cry that would surely pierce the night had it opportunity escape.

Afterward—long afterward, after the flush had faded from her cheeks and she’d returned herself to something resembling respectability, Cassandra lay in the quiet of her tent, curled upon her side, listening to the soft hush of nighttime noises.  She has no reason whatsoever to be awake, but awake she is, still turning things over, though far more clearly now than before.

There is nothing else for it: one way or another she must speak with him, must find out if… if this is all her imagination.  She has no idea where to go beyond that point, but there is time enough to figure that out.  They cannot speak here, not at camp, not while they’re so—well, “isolated” isn’t the right word, and yet it holds just the right connotation.  Should such a conversation go poorly, they would be left with little but each other’s company until a return to Skyhold.  

And so she will wait.  Such a conversation will keep until they return.

By that point, she may even have an idea of what to _say._


End file.
